


Les petits morts sont les plus precieux

by jardindesetoiles



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-10 18:24:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3299462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jardindesetoiles/pseuds/jardindesetoiles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Melkor has decided that Sauron needs a bit of a lesson in submission, again.  I really, really suck at writing summaries.  How did I forget to say it's very, very dub-con?!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Les petits morts sont les plus precieux

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: HEAVY DUB-CON. Includes bondage, knife-play, and Melkor being kind of an abusive trashbag to Mairon.

The smirk painting his master’s face had never before held such carnal hunger.

 _“Ah, but if my hateful brother could see you now, little one,”_ his master purred, _“never have you looked more breathtaking.”_

Mairon shifted where he lay sprawled, nervousness rippling through him at the tone of his master’s voice and the brief flicker of reference to his previous lord, for though Aule had coveted him, it had been in an entirely different manner, one that valued his skill of smithy over his beauty.  Now, his form lay bare, his wrists secured tightly above him to the iron bedframe with a magically unbreakable rope.  The muscles of his torso quivered slightly, from both chill and arousal, and he dared not take his eyes away when his master approached him, appraising Mairon with heavily lidded eyes.  On any other being, those eyes would have seemed unpleasant, tired.  But on him, on He Who Arises in Might, their golden gaze reflected confidence, surety, and a power beyond any save Eru himself.  Another shiver took the Maia’s body, and he scarcely remembered to breathe when his master knelt beside him, looking down and directly into his eyes now.  Even in this position, his master still towered above him.  Their gaze locked for only a split second before Mairon turned his away, ashamed to have broken protocol in such a moment.  His master chose instead to merely chuckle at the action, reaching over to weave a strand of the Maia’s long hair in his fingers, as though pondering upon a particularly valuable jewel.  He spoke, and his voice flowed, sticky and sinuous, like molasses.

 _“Even if he were to see you like this,”_ the Vala mused, while raising his other hand to stroke Mairon’s cheek and ignoring the uncertainty in those silver eyes, _“he would never have known what to do with you, how to –properly- make use of you and wield you, play you, to your greatest ends.  Truly, he could never have appreciated your worth as I do.  Your… talents, as more than a mere smith.  My most loyal Maia, my little one, you are mine as you are no other’s.  The song you sing is mine alone.”_

At the mention of talents, Mairon had blushed deeply, a delicate crimson ruddying his face.  Because he knew that his master would expect him to adore the compliment, for what else could such a thing be but a compliment, he found it within himself to reply.  When he would have done so, however, he found his unsaid words silenced by his master’s lips upon his own.  Long, dangerous fingers threaded through his hair and rested, talon-like, against his scalp; the Maia knew that those fingers could destroy as easily as they could caress.  Restrained as he was, he could do little more than return the kiss with vigor, the sloppiness of it full of tongues and teeth and fire and pure, unadulterated need.  Only when Mairon believed he would suffocate did his master finally break their kiss and bring his right hand to ghost over the smooth form beholden to him.  The touches, intimate with the barest hint of danger, were enough to cause the Maia’s breath to catch once more in his throat, to cause his body to respond with its involuntary tremors and shakes.  Lazily, and for mere moments that felt more like years, his master explored him in this fashion, grinning with just a bit more self-satisfaction whenever a particularly sensitive touch caused the Maia to stiffen a bit more or to buck his hips against such ministrations, whenever that same touch drew forth a moan, unbidden, from Mairon’s parted lips, his silvery gaze ever pleading.  For what he pleaded, he did not know.

Before long, the Vala seemed to grow bored of their game.  Taking his hand away, his smirk turned dark when Mairon let out a whine of displeasure and loss.  In that same moment, whine became whimper as those talon-like nails quickly carved deep, bloody scratches into the pale skin of Mairon’s stomach, the marks a reminder of his inferiority to his master.  Though Mairon did not even tear at the pain, he knew well that he would not be let off so lightly.  Before he’d even realized what was happening, his master stood and grabbed a dagger from where it hung on the wall.  It glinted with the promise of pain to come, and the Maia braced himself.  He felt the dagger’s tip cut white-hot into his inner thigh, and he found himself gritting his teeth against the runes of possession that were added to his flesh.  A murmur from his master accompanied these runes, and it was then that Mairon felt the gravity of the spell wash over him.  The runes, cut as deeply as they were, glowed briefly before disappearing, leaving his skin unmarred on the surface.  Below, however, the power of the spell wove through Mairon’s body and he felt it take hold; should anyone attempt to touch him in an intimate way without his master’s say-so, the touch would burn, the pain of a thousand deep lashes and more woven into every potential contact. 

And he hated it, and he cherished it, for it was yet another way that his master marked him; owned him; possessed him.  Above all else, it served as a reminder of his place: as Maia, he was expected to serve, and to do so loyally, a task which he relished and despised with equal vigor.  He fought and won against the urge to flinch when his master brought the knife to his cheek and rested the blade’s edge against his skin; the expression upon the face above blazing with purely sadistic joy.  Mairon’s stomach churned with what might have been fear or arousal, but he said nothing as his master spoke once more, his tone mockingly acerbic.

_“Does my faithful lieutenant need to be taught a lesson?  Must I clip my angel’s wings?  I daresay, such disrespect he has shown me, to keen against my actions.”_

Biting his lip, Mairon chose his words carefully.  “I sought only to express thanks for the pleasure my master had given me, and to beg him give me more.”

Chuckling, the Vala did not remove the knife.  _“Perhaps if my little Maia wishes more pleasure, he ought to remember his place.  I am a merciful being, and I will show forgiveness this once, if he can show that he has remembered his place.  Now,”_ he cast his eye upon Mairon, _“to whom do you belong, little one?”_ As if in warning, he let the blade of the knife press into Mairon’s cheek, just enough to split the skin. Blood trickled from the wound, and the Vala waited impassively for a reaction, though a new light caught in his eyes.

Mustering himself against the pain, Mairon knew exactly how he would need to respond.  “You, my lord,” his tone reverent and one of utter gratitude, “I belong to you.”

His master seemed to ponder his answer a moment, before he rasped, _“And?”_ He held the bloody knife against the Maia’s face still, threatening to cut again.

Mairon did not dare to sigh.  “I am yours in body, in mind, in spirit.  Where you beckon I will follow.  I am a tool in your hands, an instrument in your fingers.  Use me as you will, for I am yours and yours alone.”

Smirking, his master drew the knife away, _“Correct.  In the future, you will do well as not to forget your place, little one.”_ Gently, he licked the blade clean before setting it aside.  Moving to rummage through a drawer, he retrieved a few more lengths of rope before returning to stand at the foot of the bed.  _“Spread your legs, little one.”_  Mairon did not need to be told twice.

He watched then with rapt attention as he was bound by the ankles to the foot of the bed, his form now spread wide and open and vulnerable; he would not be able to defend himself even in necessity.  Flexing one ankle, he tested the knot that held him and found it to be as strong as those binding his wrists.  Satisfied, his master clambered atop his prize so that they were face to face.  Leaning forward, he swiped his tongue over the still-angry cut on Mairon’s cheek and drew him into a deep, harsh kiss.  Mairon returned the kiss with feverish desire, and gasped into it as he felt his master’s fingers tease at his left nipple; the bar pierced through the sensitive nub giving him a measure of sensation he was still unused to.   Breaking the kiss with a smirk, his master replaced his fingers with his mouth, kissing and sucking at both nipples until they stood at rapt attention and Mairon could only struggle against his bonds, groaning his frustration.  Caressing the Maia’s skin, the Vala began to trail a line of kisses down one thigh, pausing over the place he had earlier carved the runes.  Mairon watched and waited as his master murmured a few words over the spell’s anchor point, and suddenly every inch of his body felt alight with blinding arousal and ardent desire.  He keened, moaning with abandon as he arced off the bed.  Grinning seductively, his master regarded him once more.

_“Eager are we, little one?  Tell me, do you want this?”_

Though he found his mind struggling to form words, the Maia persisted in answering.  “My lord, I… yes… please my lord,” he begged, tears nearly springing to his eyes for how exquisitely he burned, “please, take me, I need you. I am yours, please…”  His face burned as hotly with humiliation as his body did with lust.

Whether his master’s sneer was at his desperation, he could not tell.   Whatever the case, the Vala quickly moved away to disrobe and to slick his hardened length.  Climbing back onto the bed, his golden eyes flashed as they met the Maia’s silver ones, and he did not break their eye contact as he positioned himself and fully entered the other’s body with one slow thrust, a deep sigh of relief shuddering from the depths of his throat.

At the invasion, pain and pleasure exploded equally within Mairon, and he could not hold back his mewls and moans.  Given a second to adjust, he tensed when his master both began to move within him and sink teeth into his neck, breaking blood vessels under the skin and leaving the once-creamy skin mottled with the bruise of a love bite.

 _“That’s it,”_ his master murmured against his neck, _“sing for me, little one.”_

Encouraged, Mairon let loose his moans and whines and mewls without care for who might hear; every thrust he made sure to meet with his hips.  The fire burning through him reached a pitch, and he heard his own voice, cracked, starved, begging, “Master, please… please…”

That strong fingers closed over his engorged, weeping member came as a relief.  Strong strokes met the rhythm of deep, harsh thrusts as the Maia felt his peak come upon him in an exquisite orchestra, and within moments he shuddered his release, spasms and glorious sensations flooding his awareness as he came thick, white ropes of seed across his still-marred torso, his ragged voice nearly screaming with the exhilaration.  His master was quick to follow, giving a few last harsh ruts into his still-shaky body before spilling within him.  Sighing with what Mairon could only interpret as ecstasy, the Vala braced his weight upon one arm and traced his free hand through the spend upon Mairon’s stomach.  As was expected, the Maia parted his lips to welcome his master’s fingers, and dutifully licked them clean.  Once every last trace of seed had been ‘cleaned’ from him, his master pulled out and with a murmur and small gesture freed Mairon of the bounds that held him.  Settling down into the bed, the Vala opened his arms.  With a sort of pride and relief, the Maia pressed into the embrace and traced lazy patterns upon his master’s chest, a smile curving upon his lips.  Though he could not see his master’s face, he could feel in the position of their bodies that the mighty Vala was satiated for the moment, and he blushed when he felt long, cold fingers stroke through his hair.  Resting his head against his master’s chest, Mairon let out a contented sigh, which was quickly echoed.  Glancing up towards his master’s face, he dared to speak.  “Have I pleased you, master?”

Golden eyes radiated contentedness.  _“You have done well, my little Mairon.  But there is one more thing I must ask of you.”_

At the sound of his name spoken in that raspy, powerful voice, Mairon shivered but replied, “Anything.”

_“I would hear my name.”_

Trembling with the uncharacteristic intimacy of the moment, Mairon blushed but nonetheless obliged, as he always did.  As he always would.

“Melkor,” he paused, before adding in a voice that was barely a whisper, “I am yours.”

Sighing contentedly once more, his master nodded.  _“You are mine.”_


End file.
